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The old prospector had traveled down the Colorado River in his overloaded wooden raft, alone and in search for gold. A mile from El Tovar Canyon, just as he rounded the bend, he spotted some stains in the sedimentary formations on the east wall. Curious, he paddled ashore. Upon examining the sandstone cliff, he noticed footholds etched in the precipice. Most were badly eroded and they were spaced too far apart to do him much good.

Curious, he decided to investigate. Grabbing a small kerosene lantern, he tied it to his belt. After taking a coiled rope and a climbing pick, he positioned his first piton in the bedrock at arm's height directly below the footholds. Using a rope and the pitons, as well as the footholds for support, he was half-way up the steep canyon wall when he lost his footing. With legs flailing, he scrambled to regain his stability. The prospector knew that unless he could buttress one of his feet against the cliff, he'd be a goner. Instead of finding a toehold, his boot broke through the sandstone in an odd way-like that sinking feeling you get when you drop six inches into a gopher hole.

After regaining firmer traction, he lowered himself to where his foot had been. Using one of the pitons, he enlarged the hole. It was hard to believe, but there was no question that he had stumbled upon an opening. Could it be a cave? He removed more of the loosely packed dirt. Once it was big enough for him to stick his head in, he shouted a hello. When he heard the echo of his own hollow voice fade into oblivion, he knew it was a cave. Although there were many fissures and caverns in the cliffs surrounding the Grand Canyon, most of them had already been explored. But this one had been sealed. Maybe he'd get lucky and find some Indian artifacts he could sell. Trying to steady his trembling hands, he lit the lantern and ventured inside.

There were strange markings on the walls. He had often seen the Indians' ancient writings, which looked more like childish drawings. But these were different. Below the writing, etched in the bedrock, there was a depiction of three triangular shapes. He'd seen those shapes before, but couldn't remember where. He ran his hand along the surface of the impression. It felt cool to the touch and surprisingly smooth.

As he moved into the abyss, he noticed there were recesses in the walls. When he brought the light closer for a better look, he tripped over something lying on the ground. "Jeez," he exclaimed. By his feet there were a half dozen urns and vessels, but they seemed foreign, not the usual Indian artifacts. In a state of awe, he examined each with great care. Some of the vessels were beautifully carved while others were grotesque—maybe proverbial symbols of good and evil. All were made out of some kind of metallic substance. One vessel contained a glistening object. Picking it up with a shaking hand, he brought it closer to the light. What he saw made him shiver with delight. The gold nugget was large and heavy, the biggest he'd ever seen. His mind raced. If there's one, maybe I'll find more. His heart pounding, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Thank you, Lord."

At the far end of the wall, in one of the recesses, he spotted the glint of a container the size of a picnic basket. He placed the lantern by his feet and struggled to lift it off the shelf. When he set the rectangular box close to the lantern, he saw the same triangular figures etched in the lid, only these were three-dimensional. They looked like the ones he'd seen on the wall by the cave's entrance.

Now I remember! he thought. The Egyptian pyramids. I've seen pictures of them in a book.

On closer inspection, he realized the container was metallic. This wasn't the work of primitive Indians, he figured—the polished metalwork was too advanced for them.

It took him awhile to pry off the cover. He brought the light closer to his find. What he saw made him shiver. Inside the container were two well-preserved tablets. Somewhat larger than a textbook and just as thick, they were covered with the same picture writing that he saw at the cave's entrance. With a shaking hand, he picked one up. Yes. There was no mistaking it! He'd been prospecting for gold long enough to spot the real stuff when he saw it. "Lord Almighty," he wheezed. "Darned thing must weigh at least two pounds."

Shrieking out a few hallelujahs, he clicked his heels together, and danced in a circle. He would live out his twilight years in luxury, in a big city like San Francisco. He'd settle in one of those fancy hotels he had heard about, and maybe take in a woman. How long has it been since he had even talked to one? Six months or more, he reckoned.

He placed the golden tablet back in the box, picked up his lantern and ventured farther into the cave. A few steps to his left there was a large container shaped like a coffin. Too big to be a casket, he thought. Someone had told him moneyed people were buried in metal coffins. He didn't think a rich person would set foot in a desolate place like this. But then there were those gold tablets...He peered past the partially open lid, freezing at the sight before him. At the bottom of the casket lay a body wrapped in cloth like a head-to-toe bandage. He paced it off. God almighty, he thought. Uncle Jed was the tallest man I knew. Six-five, he used to brag. But this mummy is at least three feet taller!

His mind was racing. Pyramids and mummies. What's this stuff doing here? Belongs in Egypt maybe, but sure as heck not in Arizona.

He returned to the box containing the tablets and picked up the second one. It was as heavy as the first. He glanced at the other one. They're heavy, but what the hell, he thought. He tucked one under each arm and walked toward the cave's opening.

It started as a jolt in the ground, and then there were a series of rumbles, each one stronger than before. The ground shook, echoing in the cavern like distant thunder. Debris started falling around him. Fearing a cave-in, he ran toward the entrance in a panic just as a portion of the cave's wall broke loose. It smashed him to the ground, a knifelike pain boring into his ribcage. Lying face down in the dirt, he gasped for air, each breath an agonizing ordeal.

The old man was now certain he would face an agonizing death. Wiping the blood off his hand, he wished he had never stumbled into the place. After years of fruitless prospecting he had been sure he had struck it rich. But that was not to be, because now he was convinced the place was cursed. Goddamn crushed ribs, and no one around to help.

Slowly he came to his feet. Can't leave the tablets, he thought. Picking both up, he staggered toward the cave's entrance. The quakes became so violent he feared they might wrench the ground from under him. With debris and rocks pelting all around him, his energy almost drained, he at last stumbled within arm's reach of the cave's opening. Falling to his knees, he clutched the tablets.

In a matter of seconds the rumbling stopped. His throat welled with a slimy liquid tasting like iron. He spat out a mouthful of blood, then another and another. His breaths, as shallow as they were, sounded like gargles. Drowning in my own blood. I'm done for.

On elbows and knees, he crawled the remaining few feet to the edge of the cliff and stared down at the turbulent waters of the Colorado River. In a final burst of strength, he heaved one of the tablets out of the fissure, hoping someone would find it and come to the cave. Then he might get a decent burial.

Still clutching the other tablet, he collapsed prone on the ground. The pain in his chest unremitting, his vision blurring, his throat constantly filling with blood from the punctured lung, he reached for the holster. In was then he realized his gun was missing. "Please, God. Let me find it."

Forcing himself to his knees, he crawled a few feet inside the cave. It was dark and he had no idea where he had left the lantern. Sweeping the ground with his hands, he was about to resign himself to a painful death, when his hand brushed against the familiar feel of the Colt .45—his best friend through the years, and now his savior.

He pressed the barrel into his temple. "Goodbye, world. Can't say it's been fun." For a moment, he caressed the trigger.

Then he squeezed it.

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Michael Brogan was working on his fourth tequila shooter. After scrutinizing the amber-colored liquid, he downed the drink. Then he picked up the half-empty bottle and strode over to the motel window; the one with the broken shade. Michael peered across the street at the gaudy neon sign of the Horseshoe Saloon. The scene was always the same. It flashed a pair of dice that registered a seven and an eleven. He knew why he had chosen Las Vegas as a place to live—the bars never closed.

He gulped down another shooter, and then grimaced. The bitter taste of the tequila passed, spreading a warm glow. Whenever he could afford it, he bought a better brand.

Michael drank to repress the memory of the tragic death of his wife and only child. Although they were the ones killed in the automobile accident, he felt he was the victim.

They died three years before, but even in his alcoholic haze the details were still fresh in his mind. He had argued with his wife over something trivial. Furious, she had driven off in the car, taking their six-year-old son with her. She never made it to the freeway. A speeding teenager hit her head on, killing both of them instantly.

Soon after, he started drinking heavily. Everyone was sympathetic at first, but when his performance as professor of archeology at USC began to suffer, the dean chose not to renew his contract.

That was the beginning of the downward spiral. Within a year of losing his job, he went through the money he had received from the life insurance company. When that was gone, he sold the furniture and whatever else he could lay his hands on. It was only a question of time before he was unable to keep up the mortgage payments, and the bank foreclosed. Now he had nothing left to show for all the years he'd spent building his dream, except a suitcase full of old clothes, a ten-year-old car and the dingy motel room he rented by the week.

Without goals or ambitions, Michael drifted from one meaningless job to the next...and in between work there was the booze, the only thing that really mattered anymore.

He placed the tequila bottle on the bed stand next to the picture of his wife and child. For the hundredth time, he wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't argued with her on that fateful afternoon. Up to that point, he had felt blessed, for a good job and a loving family. Now life was nothing more than drudgery.

He grasped the bottle and after taking a long pull, looked at it reverently. "Once I finish what's left of you," he slurred, "I won't care if the sun ever rises." Brushing some magazines and the remnants of a half-eaten sandwich off the soiled bedcover, he flopped on the mattress.

The telephone rang. He reached for it, but in his drunken stupor, he knocked it to the floor. "Oh hell, let the machine pick it up," he muttered. He could barely hear Scarpulla's wheezy voice. "Michael. Are you there? Pick up the phone!"

"I don't want to talk to you." Michael said, as if the caller could hear. "Leave me alone."

He drifted off to a dreamless sleep thinking of his wife and child.

When Michael's eyes opened, a cold dawn brought another day of reality. He rolled over to the other side of the bed in the hope he could go back to sleep. But that was not to be. He could hear a couple's incessant arguing through the paper-thin wall. He struggled to get out of bed, tasting the aftermath of last night's tequila.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. The sallow reflection staring back at him in the mirror showed bloodshot eyes and a pair of reddish cheeks. Michael never considered himself good looking, but for some reason women were always drawn to him. His wife had told him it was his disarming smile and the roguish good looks of a man who genuinely enjoyed the outdoors.

Running a comb through his shock of sandy hair, he surveyed last night's damage. The puff marks under his eyes betrayed the binge.

He felt the stubble on his chin. Had it been a week since he last shaved? The razor was dull, the cut painful, but after he had applied a septic pencil to it, he thought he just might fool people into thinking he was human.

On his way to the bedroom, he stubbed his toe on the empty tequila bottle. He picked it up and lobbed it into a wastebasket. Michael wanted a drink, but that had been his only bottle. As he pulled on his pants, he saw the phone on the floor. It reminded him of last night's message. "Damn. Scarpulla!"

He did not like to work for Nikos Scarpulla. The last time he'd barely managed to escape with his hide. The antiquities dealer had asked him to find a rare idol in the Mayan Jungle. He had found the idol, but no one had bothered to tell him that he'd have to walk on consecrated ground to steal it. The local Indians chased him for three miles. If he hadn't found refuge with a prosperous landowner, they would have fed him to the crocodiles.

At first he wasn't going to return Scarpulla's call. But that was before he counted the money in his wallet. "Shit. A hundred-fifty plus change." The prospect of standing outside the 7-11 with the illegals in the hope someone would hire him for the day didn't appeal to him. The going rate was ten bucks an hour—not much for busting one's butt moving furniture.

Picking up the phone, he punched in Scarpulla's number.

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Nikos Scarpulla found himself in a pitch-black pit somewhere this side of hell.

Groping around in the black void, he prayed he would find some light...He had to orient himself to the unfamiliar surroundings. He felt himself slipping. Knowing he could no longer maintain a grip on the jagged edge of the precipice, he screamed out for someone, anyone. But all he heard in response to his cries for help was his own echo. And then silence.

It was so absolute that it petrified him. Finally, unable to hold on any longer, he let go. At first his body seemed to hang in space, but then some unseen force sucked him into the abyss.

A hand shook him. When Nikos opened his eyes, he saw a blurred vision of his wife handing him the satellite phone. He wiped the perspiration from the dark hollows of his Machiavellian face. "Who is it?"

"Someone by the name of Michael Brogan. He says he's returning your call."

Nikos grabbed the phone. It bothered him that the bizarre dreams had been recurring with increasing frequency. He glanced at his Tiffany watch, his annoyance quick to surface. "Do you realize it's three in the morning?"

"Not by my watch," Michael shot back. "Since I'm not accustomed to yachting around, I never know what time it is in your world."

Nikos let the remark pass. No sense in arguing. He needed Michael. "I have a job for you."

"That's obvious. Otherwise you wouldn't have called."

Nikos' face reddened, a sure sign his patience was wearing thin. He worked at maintaining his composure. "I have something I think will pique your professional curiosity."

Michael chuckled. "The only thing that piques my curiosity is the green stuff they call cash."

"That's why I like you, Michael. I understand your priorities. Can you make yourself available? I have a tablet in my possession I need you to identify."

"You mean a glyph?"

"Glyph. Tablet. Call it what you like. A rafter found it half-buried on the shoreline of the Colorado River. There's some mysterious writing on it that no one can identify. At first glance, the caricatures look like hieroglyphic inscriptions, but they're not. I need you to make some discreet inquiries. I need to find out what it is. And more importantly I need to know if it has any intrinsic value."

"Intrinsic value? What the hell else kind of value would there be in a glyph?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "You might say the tablet is unique—it's made of gold. All fifty-seven troy ounces of it."

"That's almost two pounds!" Michael exclaimed. "I may have a degree in archeology, but you picked the wrong guy if you think I can give you information about some glyph with mysterious writing on it, especially if it's made of gold."

Nikos' short fuse surfaced. "You have contacts, for Christ sakes. Use them! All I need you to do is take the damn thing to some of your colleagues and have them give you an opinion. Is that so difficult?"

"Ex-colleagues," Michael corrected. He knew Nikos must have already exhausted his vast network of resources. Otherwise he wouldn't be calling him. He didn't care to work for someone as demanding as Nikos Scarpulla, but money was money. "It's going to cost you three hundred a day plus expenses, and I want a minimum guarantee of two thousand bucks regardless of how quickly I get you the info."

It was Nikos' turn to chuckle. "Now that the money issue is out of the way, when can you start?"

Ending the call, Nikos walked into the bathroom and slipped into a robe. After tying it around his expansive waist, he pressed the intercom button. That was the signal alerting the steward to serve him coffee on deck. He stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes narrowing in disgust at the dark circles beneath them. He had total control of his life...if it just wasn't for those damn nightmares.

He walked onto the aft deck, inhaling the salt air. The sea was calm, the white caps barely noticeable as they folded neatly back into the ocean swells. In the distance, the Greek island of Scopelus shimmered like a jewel. Nikos' thin cruel lips formed into a smile as he thought about the manner by which he acquired the gold tablet.

At first, when the antiquities dealer had described the artifact, Nikos had been anxious to end the call. He knew many Indian pictographs resembled Egyptian hieroglyphs. There was nothing special about them. But when the dealer told him the tablet was made of gold, he became interested.

He told the dealer he'd accept the glyph on consignment, and pay him ten percent less expenses above the value of the gold if he could peddle it. What the dealer didn't know was that Nikos' expenses were extremely high. Nikos chuckled, glad he had been able to pull a fast one over the dealer.

He again reviewed what the dealer had told him about the tablet. Strange markings and odd-looking symbols. Cuneiforms that resembled Egyptian hieroglyphs. All of this plus it was made of gold.

The glyph was just the kind of artifact his rich clients would end up having a bidding war over. Particularly if he could authenticate its providence.

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As Michael dressed, he replayed his conversation with Scarpulla. He was to pick up the glyph at Scarpulla's store in Beverly Hills. Los Angeles was a five-hour drive from Vegas. Michael reached for the tequila bottle he had purchased earlier, but then stopped short of placing it in his mouth. No. Better not. If he had a few and the cops stopped him...

Fully dressed and feeling a little better, he thought he could pass for a man in his late forties. Certainly nothing to be proud of since he was ten years younger.

The old Chevrolet convertible needed a new top and a coat of paint, but the motor was still sound. It was waiting for him in the No Parking Zone next to the curb. He removed the ticket from the windshield, adding it to the pile in the glove compartment. On his drive toward Beverly Hills, he thought how he'd go about determining the glyph's origin. It wouldn't be easy, particularly since he had lost contact with most of his colleagues.

Michael drove with the top down. The wind cleared his head, and by the time he arrived in front of Scarpulla's antique shop, he felt he was back amongst the living. The sign boasted large letters. He rolled the name of the shop on his tongue. "Objects of Eccentricity." What the hell kind of name was that?

He straightened his tie, grabbed his sport coat from the back seat, and walked inside.

He identified himself and was quickly ushered through a potpourri of objects into an office at the back of the store. He had never seen such an eclectic collection of art. Paintings and tapestries occupied the walls. Life-size bronze statues stood guard over display cases filled with glass shelves housing Russian icons, Faberge eggs, and a myriad of jeweled music boxes.

Michael introduced himself to a tall statuesque blonde with too much lipstick. She reached into a highly polished antique desk and handed him a large manila envelope with his name on it. "Mister Scarpulla wanted to make sure you received this." She put on a phony smile. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Can you recommend a good hotel close by?"

She glanced at his disheveled sport coat and outdated tie. "The Beverly Wilshire is just around the corner. But it's pricey...Maybe if you stayed at the—"

"The Beverly Wilshire will do fine." Michael knew Scarpulla would have a fit when he saw the bill. But, what the hell. The man agreed to pay his expenses.

The hotel was a far cry from the dump he'd grown accustomed to. It had a king-sized bed, a large plasma TV, a no-host bar, and an adjoining bathroom with more marble than the Taj Mahal. The first thing Michael did was pour a drink. "Here's to you, boss. Your generosity is much appreciated."

After downing the tequila, he walked over to a small desk, turned on the writing lamp, and removed the glyph from its envelope.

The brilliance of the metal dazzled him. The cuneiforms were so small that one would need a magnifying glass to read them—that is, if they could be read at all. They certainly didn't look like any hieroglyphs he'd ever seen.

Removing a tape measure from his suitcase, he wrote down the dimensions. Fifteen by twenty inches. Rather large for a glyph, he thought. But then what did he know? He turned it over. The back of it was comprised of the same shiny metal as the front. There were fewer symbols because the glyph was dominated by several large etchings. The largest was a carved figure of a bird. When he examined it through a magnifying glass, he thought the rendering to be remarkable. Yes. There was no mistake. The beak and talons were those of a falcon, but the bird had a forked tongue and scales for feathers.

The rendition of the pyramid and the Sphinx were quite extraordinary. The detail was so fine he could clearly see a passageway leading from one of the pyramids to the Sphinx. Michael was no expert, but he didn't think the glyph was made of gold. Gold was malleable. Even if the tablet was alloyed with some other metal to give it strength, it should have been easy for him to place a mark on it. But no matter how hard he tried to scrape it with his pocketknife, the metal wouldn't score.

Michael turned the glyph back to the side containing the cuneiforms. He ran his hand over the finely carved inscriptions. They were three-dimensional, the writing interspersed with strange looking marks and symbols. Offhand, he couldn't think of anyone he could approach who could help him identify the inscriptions.

He placed the tablet on the desk and took another sip of tequila. Upon reexamining the glyph, he saw a group of objects in the upper right-hand corner he hadn't noticed before. They appeared to be a tightly knit cluster of stars. Now who might know about something like this? he wondered. Maurice Laurent came to mind. He was the chair of the Department of Archaeoastronomy at USC. They weren't exactly friends, but as colleagues, they had taught together and occasionally conferred on matters pertaining to students. Maybe Maurice could help. And if not, he'd keep knocking on doors till he did get some answers—or until Scarpulla got tired of paying him his money.

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The next day Michael was in Maurice Laurent's office, watching him examine the glyph. Laurent was about his age, but looked younger. The archeoastronomer was tall and lanky, his face freckled. His red hair was cut so short that Michael could see his sunburnt scalp. A pair of reading glasses gave him an owlish appearance.

"The star cluster is definitely in the constellation of Orion." Laurent brought the glyph closer to the light. "Hmm. Strange." With a magnifying glass, he continued to scrutinize the tablet. "The stars are configured in a very odd position, and the anchor star is missing. Where did you get it?"

"It was supposedly found at the bottom of a gorge in the Grand Canyon. The person who found it claims it was buried under silt near the waterline of the Colorado River. What's an anchor star, Maurice?"

"It's the star farthest south in a constellation. In the case of Orion, it's Alderban."

"Maybe it was omitted by accident," Michael said without much conviction.

Maurice took another look at the glyph. "The rendition of the pyramids and the Sphinx are remarkable. I've never seen such clarity...and that bird...the epigraphy is extraordinary, the scribed detail superb." Maurice became pensive. Then he said, "I'd say whoever did this knew what they were doing. Alderban is one of the most prominent stars in Orion. I don't understand why it wasn't included. Did you say you don't think it's made of gold?"

"No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put a mark on it."

"I can run this over to metallurgy if you like. They'll be able to tell us."

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know. Would you like me to call and find out?"

A metallurgist told Maurice he should have an answer by noon.

He and Maurice went to lunch and returned shortly before one. Here it was almost three and Michael was still waiting.

A small man wearing a lab apron finally walked into Maurice's office. "Sorry to have taken so long." After shrugging his shoulders, he said, "This one is for the books."

"Then it isn't made of gold?" Michael made it more of a statement than a question.

"That's the easy part," the metallurgist said. "It's gold all right."

"Then how come it is so—"

"Hard? I'm sorry to say I have no idea. Gold is usually alloyed with platinum or palladium to increase its strength. This glyph, or whatever it is you want to call it, has been alloyed with a metal I can't identify."

"What do you mean you can't identify?" Michael said with skepticism. "That simply can't be."

"Believe me. I know my job," the metallurgist said. "But this? I ran the analysis three times. I came up with a net zero."

Michael was irritated. "Are you saying you couldn't separate the other metal from the gold?"

"The gold content in the glyph is twenty-four karats. That I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty. I also identified six parts of another alloy in the tablet, but I couldn't separate it. I ran every test in the book. I don't have a clue as to what kind of metal it is." The metallurgist pointed at the glyph. "Let me tell you why this thing has thrown me for a loop. Gold in its pure form has a density of 19.2 grams per cubic centimeter. The density of this gold is one thousand times greater." He handed the tablet to Michael. "The glyph is virtually indestructible."

Once the metallurgist had left the room, Michael asked Maurice, "What would you do if you were in my shoes?"

Maurice reached into a desk drawer and handed Michael an article cut out of a newspaper. "If anyone can help you, this person can. She's an Egyptologist. Her name always seems to be in the news. I would think she'd be able to tell you if the glyph was Egyptian."

Michael skimmed the article. Cheryl Cone's credentials were impressive. She headed up the Department of Egyptology at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. At thirty-five, she was already considered to be one of the foremost experts on ancient Egypt. Her specialty was the Great Pyramid and the Sphinx. According to the article, unlike most Egyptologists, she believed the monuments had been built prior to the height of Egyptian civilization. Michael didn't agree with her premise, but that didn't matter, particularly since he hadn't bothered to read a scientific journal for quite some time.

A picture of Doctor Cone accompanied the two-column press release. Michael had little difficulty in making out her features. Her mouth was sensual, her eyes large and almond-shaped. He couldn't tell the color of her hair, but it was thick and luxurious. She certainly didn't look like an archeological bookworm.

Maurice's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I attended one of Doctor Cone's lectures. She impressed me. If she can't tell you where this thing came from, maybe she could refer you to someone who can."

Michael had the feeling it wouldn't be easy to identify the glyph's origin-for this Doctor Cone or anyone else for that matter. If he didn't come up with some answers in fairly short order, Scarpulla would rant and rave. But Michael would rather take his verbal abuse than have to move furniture.

He decided to call this Cheryl Cone. What did he have to lose?

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